


Scenes from a Bakery

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bakery, F/M, Slytherins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tracey bakes and Theodore attempts to mediate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from a Bakery

“Good night, girls,” Tracey Davis says, waving to the last of her shopgirls as they close the door behind them. She walks up to it, the wind chimes still tinkling, casting the ward to lock it before she draws down the blind to shutter its window closed. 

The rest of the shop has been swept spotless; chairs stacked on top of tables, the counter wiped clean, the register’s galleons counted and accounted for. The late afternoon sun tries, but it barely slips through the heavy blinds, and the empty place is awash with but a dim glow.

There is a tinny _ding_ and Tracey smiles. She moves to the kitchen, opening one of her favorite ovens-- the first one, the one she inherited from her grandmother-- and letting the smell of a freshly baked cake fill the air. 

She sets it aside to cool before she pulls her hair back, ties it in the bun her mother showed her how to do when she was old enough, and rummages around the cupboards.

She places each ingredient one by one, a small bowl the last thing on the counter. She divvies up the sugar, the butter, measuring out ingredients she’s learned by heart and years of work and mixing them with care, until they reach a consistency she’s happy with. 

By this time the cake has cooled, and it doesn’t take long to lather the cake in frosting so smooth no ridges or edges are discernible.

She picks up her pipe, with practiced and steady hands moving up and down to write her message. She is finishing up a flowery accent when she hears someone knocking on the door.

“Ah, perfect timi-- you’re not Blaise.”

Theodore Nott smiles at her, the corner of his lips curling upward. “I’m sorry to disappoint. Should I head back out, then?”

“The cake hasn’t got your name on it, that’s all,” Tracey tells him, holding it up for him.

“ _Blaise, My answer is still no; piss off. Love, Tracey._ ” Theodore laughs. “Charming.”

“It’s our anniversary,” she informs him, shaking her head as she steps back and motions for Theodore to follow her inside. Or it would have been. She forgets which the day celebrates-- the beginning or the end? “I’m assuming he’s sent you here?”

“Couldn’t I just be visiting an old friend?”

“In Muggle London, Teddy?” she asks. “Since when do you work for him?”

“Only for the last few weeks. He’s otherwise occupied, else he’d have visited himself. He says to send over his regrets--“

“I still read the papers, you know.” She takes out a kitchen knife, larger than what is needed for the cake, and begins slicing them each a piece. “Mediterranean cruise with Pansy Parkinson, correct?”

“His offer stands, regardless,” Theodore says, thanking her when she hands him his slice.

“As does my original answer.” She sits back, watches him with an even gaze as he takes a bite.

“Tracey--”

“What?”

Theodore frowns. He licks his lips and blinks a few times. “This is _really_ good.”

“I’ll accept that as a compliment,” she says with amusement.

“You ought to. I--“ he frowns again.

“What did Blaise tell you, exactly, when he sent you over?”

“To talk to you, that was all. To apologize for his absence and--“

“He didn’t mention anything about accepting food from a witch, Teddy?”

His eyes grow wide and she almost feels sorry for the look he gives her. 

Almost, but not quite.

“Tell him for the last time,” she says, her voice low and mirthless. “The answer’s no.”

* * *

Theodore returns less than a week later, and this time Tracey is surprised because Blaise’s visits come only once a quarter.

“I suppose now he’s got a henchman he can afford to give me more frequent visits, if only by proxy,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper when she comes out to serve him his order.

“I’m not a henchman,” he starts his protest.

“Are you sure that coffee’s all you’ll be wanting, sir?”

“We got off on the wrong foot,” Theodore tries again. “I came in without warning, you poisoned me with cake--“

Tracey laughs and shakes her head. “Hardly my fault your stomach disagreed with the spices I used--“

“Fairly certain a dash of foxglove would disagree with anyone’s stomach,” Theodore mutters. “And I know you’re not interested in doing anything that Blaise wants--“

“That’s an understatement.”

“-- _But_ ,” he says, “speaking as someone who’s examined his plans, I do think they’re worth looking into. He _could_ make you a very profitable business.”

“I could do that on my own, _thank you_ ,” she says. She whispers a quick spell; in a flash, all his coffee is gone. “Ah, it looks like you're done. Have a good day.”

* * *

“You must be joking.”

Theodore looks up from a half-eaten pecan pie and flashes her a guilty smile. 

She remains unimpressed, arms crossed. “Honestly, I expected better of you.”

“I was actually just here for the snack,” Theodore confesses. “I dropped by the other day and you weren’t around-- had one of these and, well--“

She is a little mollified, but still wholly suspicious. “Very rarely do they not become addicting,” she agrees. 

“Funny what you can do when you hold off the foxglove.”

Tracey smiles thinly at him, but she does let him stay.

* * *

“You give out too many free samples.”

Tracey raises an eyebrow, plucks the cupcake from Theodore’s palm. “I should like this back then, please.”

“I meant-- it’s good to give samples,” he says, “but you should be baking smaller pieces. This is enough to fill everyone’s bellies and then when will they buy from you?”

“The next time they visit, obviously,” she says. “ _After_ they’ve told all their friends. Look, Theodore--“

“How much does it cost to do that?” he wants to know. 

“Why does it matter?” she asks. “Why do you care? I’m not selling the place to Blaise and you shouldn’t--“

He holds both hands up, takes a step back from her. “I apologize,” he says. “It wasn’t my place.”

* * *

The bakery was their baby.

Perhaps not in the way that most babies are intended to be conceived, but it had been theirs from nearly the beginning all the way to fruition. Blaise had gifted her with the land, the storefront, helped her with the various decisions she found themselves facing. Tracey created the menu, trained the staff.

They named it together.

He stopped by daily even though his office in Diagon Alley was a fair distance away, just to have a piece of cupcake (sherbet lemon, his favorite) and a coffee. He came by again after, to pick her up and then drop her off at the little flat her mum left her, just a few blocks away. Along the way he’d coax her into moving in with him, elaborating on a reason every day. She laughed and told him she’d rather wait.

From the way she caught him not two months later, pants pooled around his ankles and balls-deep in one of her shopgirls, he clearly didn’t.

* * *

“What time is it?” Theodore asks, his face sleep-lined, eyelids heavy and his words but a mumble. The kindling spits a little as wood blackens from the fire, voicing its own protest at the late hour.

She glances at the clock and feels a flush of shame. “I’ll call again tomorrow,” she says. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m here now,” he says. “I’m awake. I didn’t realize you were connected to the Floo network.”

“It has its advantages,” she says.

“Tracey?”

“You’re not to tell Blaise any of this.”

“Alright?”

“Promise.”

He nods. “I swear. Technically this is on my own time.”

She hesitates still, but figures why not. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know…?”

“How much it costs. I don’t know--“ she takes a deep breath. “I know I’m making a profit. I _am_. But just barely and I’m not-- I don’t think I’m accounting for everything I should be.”

Theodore tries to look behind her, but she wonders if he can see the parchment strewn across her kitchen table, the splotches of ink that blot her fingers. “Do you want me to take a look?”

She has a feeling she shouldn’t. “Please.”

* * *

He works quietly, asking her questions when something seems to confuse him. 

She fixes him a cup of tea, sits across the table from him to watch him make sense of the numbers, the receipts and expenses she’s given him. His brow furrows in concentration, lips pursed as he scritches the tip of the quill along parchment. His lashes are dark against his pale skin, his eyes a clear blue with a gaze as intense as anything. 

She doesn’t remember drifting to sleep, doesn’t notice her head bobbing downward as the day’s work catches up to her, but when she wakes the next day, the numbers are sorted, the tea cup's in the sink, and there’s a blanket around her shoulders.

* * *

“Sample?”

Theodore looks at the tray she holds out-- it is peppered with smaller pieces of the new flavor she’d been working on. He shakes his head no though he smiles at her. “I’d like to place an order,” he says, making no mention of how she’s clearly followed his advice. 

“The usual?” she asks, and it doesn’t take her long to ring him up and bring his food over. 

“How are things going?” he wants to know.

“What does Blaise think you’re here over so often for?” she asks.

He ducks his head briefly-- it is his tell, she’s come to learn-- and a dash of pink colors his cheeks. “He doesn’t,” he mumbles.

She can’t help grinning, and it doesn’t even have anything to do with getting one over Blaise. (Not anymore.) “Cupcakes are that good, huh?”

“I’d be very surprised you haven’t enchanted them.”

She laughs. “Like with potions? We all know they don’t react well when they’re not made in standard pewter.”

Theodore raised an eyebrow. “Never know. It could work.” And then he leans forward, “I used to be quite handy with a cauldron.”

“Mister _Nott_ ,” she murmurs, her turn to flush. “What _are_ you suggesting?”

She isn’t sure that he knows either, but he holds her gaze when he answers.

“An experiment.”

* * *

The shop is empty. The window blinds are shuttered close; the chairs on the tables and counters clean. Floor swept free of the dirt and bustle of the day.

There is a tinny ding, and Tracey starts from her place. Theodore glances up at her curiously but she steadies her hand on his, mixing the batter so that it has a smooth consistency. 

“Just the oven’s preheated,” she tells him, loathe to pull her hand away.

“We’ve not finished the batter yet,” he points out. There is a streak of flour on his cheek, a light dusting in the fringes of his hair. She is not sure how it got there but she fights an urge to brush it clean. 

It is a battle she loses; her thumb wipes the streak away, lingering there for a moment longer. 

“Flour,” she explains when his eyes grow wide. She smiles, forces her glance toward the mixing bowl. “It looks just right.”

She shows him how to ladle the batter into the mold, lets him place the pan in the oven. He returns to the cauldron where the amortentia is waiting to be brewed, gestures her over so she can see what he does to make it achieve the mother of pearl sheen it is so famous for. His voice is low in her ear; when she catches a whiff of mint she can’t tell if it’s coming from the cauldron or him. 

“It might not work, it might just work, but if we add a dash of crushed dittany we might find its effects contained in the cakes.”

She frowns. “And how do we know it’s worked? Are you to try one?”

“Ah.”

The timer dings again, and Tracey pulls herself away to take the cupcakes out of the oven. She sets them to cool, brushing her hands against the front of her apron as she eyes Theodore with some amusement. “Didn’t quite think this through, did you?”

“You could have pointed it out sooner,” he tells her. “Perhaps a simple Pepper-Up next time?”

“I can whip up a chocolate frosting for the cakes.”

She sets about doing just that, Theodore hovering behind her to watch. She holds up the spatula for him to try. He grins as he licks a stripe up the flat side of the spatula (“ _Disgusting_!” she protests.) and she shakes her head, thumb brushing against the tip of his nose where chocolate frosting has found its way. 

He catches her thumb with his lips, licking the frosting off there as well. She sucks in a breath at feeling of his tongue-- she pulls it away but only so she can loop her arms around his neck and tug him down, her lips seeking his. 

He tastes very faintly of chocolate, of peppermint and warmth; when he kisses her he is gentle. She presses herself against him, though, a very thin layer of restraint keeping her from kissing him more forcefully, more fiercely. She brushes her tongue against his lip, licks into his mouth when he yields. She feels the way his fingers clench against her waist; she hopes he holds her hard enough to leave their mark the next day.

“Tracey,” he whispers, the question unspoken between them as it hangs, uncertain, in the air.

She shakes her head, tugs him toward the counter. She pulls him so he is lined up perfectly against her; her back pressed to the edge of the counter and his body snug against hers. She kisses him again, lets her fingers twist against the fabric of his clothes, working the buckle of his pants.

He must think that’s answer enough, because in the next moment he’s lifting her up, letting her sit on the counter with her knees on either side of his waist, pushing the hem of her skirt up so it’s riding against her thighs. He lets slip a moan once she slips her hand beneath the waistband of his pants, fingers closing around him. She strokes him slowly, thumb rough against the tip of his cock to coax out another moan. 

His mouth finds her neck, sucks a bruise on it, even as he slides his hands up her thighs. He pulls her legs around his waist, lifts her off the counter to tug her knickers free, and then it’s his fingers stroking her eagerly, fervently. She whimpers, she can’t help it; she grows wetter with his touch. When he slides a finger inside her she can’t help squeezing his cock out of surprise; he groans but keeps fucking her so she settles for sinking her teeth against his shoulder to keep from keening too loudly. 

There is a second finger inside her, a third. He thrusts all three without restraint and she finds herself bucking against his hand. She’s holding onto him and she wants more, she needs more. _Please_ , she thinks she hears herself say, and the next thing she knows there is a whisper of a spell and the press of his cock against her, inside her, one rough thrust into her. She cries out, as does he, feels herself clenching around him as he fills her and she holds on, lets him move inside her as he finds his rhythm. 

He lays her down so her back is flat against the counter and he’s above her, angled so he can thrust deeper. He pulls back further with every rock of his hips against her and it’s barely enough. She wants more of him so she sits up to meet him halfway, her thighs on either side of his waist as she settles herself on him, letting her carry her weight so she can sink onto his cock, so he can drive himself deeper inside her. She feels the clenching of her muscles around him, the pull low in her belly that tells her she’s nearly there. 

He groans his warning and she steers him back, so this time it’s his back against the counter, and she nudges him to sit. She positions them so she’s half-kneeling, half-sitting on his lap, hips grinding circles against his, her hands on his chest as she moves, faster and faster. He bites his lip, his fingers moving to find her clit, pressing circles against it, and the next thing she knows she’s crying out, she’s clenching around him, she’s undone.

She lays her head on his chest and tells him not to move. 

He obliges until dawn the next day, when the first of her shopgirls walks in on them.

Tracey blinks sleepily, a smile on her face. “Good morning.”


End file.
